Paper Cranes
by DarkBlaziken
Summary: FE6. She had insisted on teaching him how to fold a paper crane. Oneshot, Rutger/Clarine


**Rated for violence, though I'm tempted to lower the rating to K+.**

* * *

She had insisted on teaching him how to fold a paper crane.

He had utterly despised the idea—for one, it had completely distracted them from their duties on the battlefield. For the love of Father Sky, didn't this little girl know that they were in the midst of a _war_, not one of those silly fantasy daydreams of hers? For another, the hands of a Sacaen swordsman were not nearly as deft as the dainty fingers of the nobility.

But she had spied a few pieces of perfectly square paper spilling out from the pouch of a bandit—never mind that they were bank notes—and had demanded that they fold a few cranes before they left.

He had tried to drag her away with the excuse that he did not know how to fold one, and she, appalled by the news, had decided to give him a quite origami lesson.

In the middle of a freaking _battle._

He had tried his best to make the "lesson" as short as possible—but she, ever the perfectionist, had insisted that his crease lines were off-centre, that his folds were asymmetrical, and had made him correct it, over and over again.

She had not been satisfied with his work until the battle had ended.

The most infuriating thing of all was, when she had finally pronounced his work "passable", she had taken it from him and sent it towards the horizon with a magic gust of wind.

_The cranes should be free to roam the edges of the world,_ she had explained. _They shouldn't be confined here with us, never to take flight._

He had not bothered to point out that the crane's wings were made out of paper and therefore could never fly.

* * *

_You won't come with me to Etruria?_

It wasn't the first time she had shouted at him, but he had never felt so guilty for making her angry.

He could see the tears welling up in her eyes, tears of frustration, of a spoiled princess not getting what she had wanted—or so he had thought.

_Please_. The next word had tumbled out of her mouth, trembling, unfamiliar. He froze. She had never begged him before, or in fact anyone else in the army for the matter—with her it had always been _do this, do that, get this for me, don't you dare disobey me, vassal_—and it had been the perfectly normal mode of communication for them. He had sometimes wondered why he had shown such patience towards her—had it been anyone else, they would surely perish under his blade.

That one word had unlocked everything. His feelings, his emotions, everything he had kept locked up somewhere in his heart, those sentiments which weakened his will, his vengeance, those feelings of longing, affection, _love_. He had nearly agreed to her request, there and then.

But the cold, rational part of him took over, the part only interested in the mastery of the blade, in the ruthless tactics of survival, and in revenge. _No_, he had told her, _I cannot. Remember the cranes? You had said they were meant to be free. So am I. A wandering swordsman is not so different from a crane. I'm not suited for the life of an Etrurian. The formalities will only imprison me. I need freedom to roam the lands, to hone my skills—my future is not with yours. Let me go. Like you did with the cranes._

He had embraced her briefly—how he wished he could hold on to her like that forever!—and he had left her there, standing all alone, away from the rest of the army, and he turned and left, too afraid to see the hurt he had given her written on her face, too afraid to let her see the mixed feelings etched on his own face.

And, like the cranes, he had vanished into the horizon.

* * *

He wordlessly dropped a few coins on the counter before sitting down in front of it.

Finally, he had arrived.

He was in a small inn just on the outskirts of the city of Aquleia—Etruria's capital, the place on the continent with the highest level of technology and civilization. He had to admit, it was a beautiful place with its own unique elegance and cultural splendour. However, he knew that he would always prefer the plains of Sacae, with Father Sky and Mother Earth watching over him.

The past few years had been fruitful to him—he had wandered all around the continent, seeking for the strongest swordsmen said to exist—and he had defeated so many that he could hardly remember their faces now. There were rumours of a legendary swordmaster who felled every single opponent in his path—a swordmaster equal to the Sword Saint, soon to surpass him in skill. And yet despite all the stories none really knew who he was—he had managed to keep his profile low, allowing the legends instead to build up on another character—the Sword Princess, heir to the Sword Saint, whom he knew to be none other than Karel's niece, Fir. But he was content. Content with the quiet acknowledgement of his prowess, the unspoken approval he received.

He murmured a request for a square piece of paper from the innkeeper, who obliged with a queer glance at him. He ignored the scrutiny and absentmindedly began to fold the paper into a small square, slowly converting it into the familiar shape of a crane.

Ever since the day he had left her, he had vowed to fold a paper crane every day, just for her. And he had kept that promise well. No matter how hard it was, he always managed to scavenge a piece of paper, and then painstakingly slowly and clumsily transform it into a crane. As the days passed, the cranes slowly took up more and more space in his satchel—so much so that he had to find a separate bag for them. He had then told himself that when he had completed the thousandth crane—if he ever did—he would make a trip to Aquleia and give it all to her. He had thought that perhaps he would never accomplish the task. He had thought that he would soon forget about her and focus on his swordsmanship instead. He had thought that love was but a fleeting passion.

He was wrong.

He could never blot her out from his mind—her smile, her childish, demanding ways, her tenderness—everything was carved into his mind permanently, and try as he might he could not wash the memories away. He had underestimated the power and influence of love. Love, he realised, was an emotion even more powerful and frightening than revenge. Succumbing to it was his greatest mistake, for it had tortured him so—but yet it was his greatest blessing, for it finally gave him some meaning in life other than hunting the fugitive Bernese soldiers down. It was so contradictory, so confusing that it had ensnared him deeper than revenge ever had.

He stared idly at the half-complete crane sitting on his palm. This, he knew, was that thousandth crane. A thousand days since they last met—almost three years—and yet he still remembered her, thought of her, _loved _her. Would she still remember him? Probably not—the fancies of the nobility were never long-lived. She could have been married to someone from another royal house of Etruria by now for all he knew—noblewomen were usually betrothed once they were of marriageable age. _Is there even a point in my visit,_ he thought sardonically. _She probably won't even recognize me—what made me think that she would even remember me? I was just a commoner to her, a vassal, to be ordered around, used, then disposed of—_

—_But if that was the case, why did she beg you not to leave?_ He mentally rebutted himself, almost hopefully, then shook his head as though trying to keep himself awake. Why was he becoming sentimental? It wasn't like him, not at all—

The abrupt realization that the inn had gone deadly silent distracted him from his mental dialogue. He looked around, searching for the source of the shock. And he saw it.

Faintly in the distance, against the now pitch-black horizon glowed some hundreds of red, sinister lights. _Torches. _As they drew nearer, he could vaguely make out the shadowy outlines of men, _hundreds_ of men with the sharp points of spears above their heads, along with the broad shadow of horses and some great, hovering things in the sky—_wyverns._ _Bern._ It all clicked. These were the leftover loyalist troops from Bern, who were undoubtedly dissatisfied with the new Bernese government headed by Queen Guinevere, and were thus seeking to launch a surprise attack on Aquleia, take control of Etruria, and force Guinevere to abdicate with the backing of the Etrurian Army. It was common knowledge that Etruria and Bern were never at friendly relations with each other, and now was the perfect time to strike—Etruria had not yet fully recovered from the impact of the continental war, but things had been sufficiently restored for the security on the castle to be lowered. An unannounced attack on the castle in the dead of night would certainly crumble the weak defences around the border of the castle, and though the reinforcements would come immediately when informed, it would be too late.

The other inhabitants of the inn must have realised this too, for there was a sudden uproar of commotion as everyone hastened to gather up their things and flee as far as they could before the Bernese Army arrived. The Bern soldiers had no qualms about killing civilians.

_The Bernese loyalists are attacking Aquleia_, he repeated dully to himself. Then it hit him. _Clarine is in danger._

That was all the motivation he needed to grab his things and join the crowd of people forcing their way out of the tiny inn door, trying to run as far as they could before the troops arrived.

Except that unlike them, he was heading for the opposite direction.

* * *

He knew that he could not hold them off indefinitely—he was outnumbered a few hundred to one—but he did not need to. He just needed to buy enough time for the Etrurian Army to react to the surprise attack, and all would be settled.

And so he defiantly stood his ground as the mass of shadows approached. They were now so close that he could make out the features on the faces of every one of them by the dim torchlight— each one of them grim, savage, each one possessing a mad determination to bring the city down.

The russet warhorse in the lead suddenly stopped and its rider raised a hand, halting the progress of the rest of the army. The rider rode up to him, seemed to examine him curiously before moving on, attempting to pass the point where he stood.

"Stop."

His sword appeared from nowhere, outstretched, barring the way of the rider. The horse reared, uncomfortable with having a weapon placed directly in front of his throat. The rider forced the horse down with an unintelligible command, and then turned around to stare at him again.

"You will not pass here," he said.

The rider gave a snort. "You look like you've got Bernese blood in you. Move before things get unpleasant, lad. I've no wish to kill a Bernese." With that he pushed the outstretched blade aside with his spear and continued on. The rest of his troop followed suit.

He leapt after the rider, Killing Edge in hand to deliver the deathblow—but the rider's reflexes were fast, too. The heavy spear clashed in response to the swift blade at an incredible speed, throwing him backwards onto the ground. The rider gave a contemptuous grunt and rode on.

A ghastly wail emerged from behind. The rider turned, distracted, just in time to see the head of one of his comrades roll on the ground, leaving a sticky dark trail of blood in its path. Another shriek, and one of the infantry fell face forward onto the ground, a sword still embedded deeply into the gap of his armour.

He walked over calmly and retrieved his bloodied blade from the body. He gave the rider a cold stare. "You will not pass here," he repeated before sticking his sword through the neck of another foot soldier and pulling it out with a sickening ripping sound.

The rider's face contorted into a snarl. He did not want to bother with this unknown scoundrel, but his troop could not progress, not with someone taking out its members one by one. "Get him," he barked before turning around to ride on.

He watched as two of the cavalry, two of the infantry and a wyvern rider broke ranks from the marching troop and approached him. He smiled grimly. If the troop had thought that that was all the manpower they needed to get rid of him, then he was going to prove them wrong.

In no time at all, all five attackers fell, either headless or with a deep gash through their chest. He rushed forward to the front of the army and began taking out random members, messing up the formation. The army was once again forced to a halt.

The commanding rider spat at the ground angrily. "Can't you idiots get rid of him? Stop, turn around and _kill him_!"

_Perfect, _he thought to himself. _They've swallowed the bait._

And that was all he could think to himself before the onslaught of attackers came.

* * *

He did not know how long he lasted, nor did he know how many he had killed; all he knew was that he hated the Bernese, hated these people whom he shared half of his blood with, and that _Clarine had to be safe._

Dodge, parry, slash, kill. That was his routine, and that was how he attempted to coax the attackers to move in the opposite direction, away from the city. But one man could not stop the progress of a few hundred, and progress toward the city they did, inch by menacing inch, getting closer and closer to the closed but fragile city gates. He could not, _would not_ let them reach—

His attacks grew fiercer and fiercer, more and more reckless—driving his sword through the stomach of a soldier, not caring whether he had killed them anymore—he just needed to delay them, delay them _just a while more_, and the Etrurian soldiers would come, and it'd be all over—

A wyvern rider swooped down on him, spear curving down in a wide arc—and he dodged, narrowly missed the deadly parabola it traced out—

A sound of ripping fabric filled the air.

He turned around, and watched as nine hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes spilled into the air, suspended momentarily in time and space from the torn sack hanging from the spear—

He roared, fresh anger coursing through his veins, anger at seeing his years of work going to waste, spoiled so easily by the sweep of a spear—and he launched himself at the offending wyvern rider, slicing the head off the great flying brute with a clean, furious slash before stabbing its rider repeatedly in the stomach, the wave of bloodlust raging through him blotting out every rational thought in him, concentrating only on the mutilated remains of the wyvern rider—

He heard of chorus of screechy wails above him; looking up he saw five more wyverns circling above him, ready to swoop down on him simultaneously, to crush him by their sheer number. He watched them spiral down, spears pointed at him, but he just stood and watched, watched them as they were seconds away from crashing down on him—

And he leapt aside, causing the five riders to crash into each other to their gory death. He had managed to leap away from the riders, away from what would have been certain death.

But he had leapt straight into the path of the waiting lance of the commander.

It was too late for him to attempt to dodge now; he could only watch the inertia of his leap caused him to gravitate towards the spear point, watch as the sharp tip drove itself into his unarmoured chest.

The pain was excruciating but oddly distant; everything was slipping away dizzingly, swirling around him into some surreal dimension. He could see the loathsome face of the commander in front of him, with that same loathsome crooked smile. "Still human in the end, aren't we," the swimming face seemed to say. But he did not care anymore, for he could see what was beyond that face, bursting out from the rippling, open city gates, dimly lit by the thousands of torches they bore.

"You've lost," he murmured to the face. The grin slid off the face for a brief moment, but it returned again, more victorious than ever. "So you're a sore loser, eh? Need me to give you another good hard poke?"

He could not care less, but explaining the situation to the face seemed to give him an odd sort of satisfaction. "Look behind you," he rasped. An oddly light sensation came to him. "You've lost, and I…I'm free."

He has finally understood what she had meant. _The cranes should be free to roam the edges of the world. _And so they were. He had freed them. All nine hundred and ninety-nine of them. They were freed.

And so was he, the last crane. He was freed as well, at long last.

* * *

The civilians of Aquleia woke to a blood-red dawn.

A few scattered members of the Etrurian army walked amongst the piles of bodies outside the city gate, dragging the dead Bernese soldiers into a pile and separating the wounded from the dead.

In the distance, the two generals who had directed the battle stood contemplating a body with a spear still driven through his chest.

"Was he not the half-Bernese swordsman from Sacae," the taller of the two said. It was a statement, not a question.

"The one who was always protecting Clarine. He nearly killed me, you know, for reprimanding her once. Until he found out that I was her brother, that is."

"…if the innkeeper's recount was reliable, then he must have been the one who had held the invaders back and killed at least seventy of them before we managed to arrive."

"I would have expected him to have finished a hundred of them off and survived to tell the tale," the Archery General sighed and looked around. He bent down and picked something up from the ground. "All these paper cranes…"

"Probably meant for Clarine. If I remember correctly, she adores them. She made all of us learn how to fold them, even General Douglas," the other man replied, voicing what both of them were thinking. He pulled the spear out of the body with a careful tug, closed its blank, unseeing brown eyes and carried it over to his black warhorse. "The least we could do is to give him a proper burial."

The Archery General nodded, moving over to help sling the body over the horse. "But do me a favour and don't tell Clarine. She's better off not knowing."

"I won't."

The first rays of the rising sun peeked out from the horizon, basking the body in a golden glow. The light played with the shadows on his face such that from an angle, one would have sworn that he was smiling. The two of them made their way slowly across the field towards the grove where all the fallen Etrurian soldiers were to be buried, horse and body in tow.

If either of them had opened the left hand of the swordsman, they would have found an incomplete paper crane scrunched tightly in the fist.

* * *

**A/N: I think this epitomizes the case of an impossibly twisted plot. **

**Oh, and call the last part of the story a natural fangirl tendency. See, there's a battle, and it's set in Etruria...I couldn't resist.**


End file.
